Triskellion by Will Peterson Page B

front door. Once again powerless to resist, the twins followed him up the steps.
    The cavernous hall inside the main entrance smelled ofwax polish, wood smoke and something else which neither Rachel nor Adam could quite place.
    Maybe it was just age.
    Two wide, wooden staircases flanked the hall at either side and in the middle sat a huge, stone fireplace where a few logs still smouldered from the night before. Above the fireplace hung a portrait of a man Rachel guessed must have been an ancient Wing. He was wearing a wig and a tricorn hat. Waverley Hall stood in the background while in the far distance, the carved chalk circle of the Triskellion was painted on the dark surface of the moor.
    On the surrounding walls hung shields, broadswords, helmets, spears and the assorted horns and antlers of long dead animals. The commodore clumped across the stone floor and through a doorway by the side of the fireplace. Rachel and Adam followed him along a panelled corridor and into a sunlit room with French windows that looked out over a well tended lawn, then beyond across acres of parkland and down to a lake.
    “Sit down,” the commodore said. His tone was kindly, and he gestured at an assortment of armchairs and sofas that, to Rachel’s eyes, looked frayed and beaten up. Rachel sat down in a cracked leathery chair that smelled strongly of dog, whereupon Merlin loped in from another room and, at her eye level, sniffed Rachel’s face before laying its vast, bristly head in her lap.
    Straining her head back to avoid the wet nose and massivetongue of the wolfhound, Rachel noticed that there were large bits missing from the ornate ceiling. As her eyes darted around, she could see that the rest of the room, though comfortable for such a large space, was in similar condition. At her feet was a pinkish, threadbare carpet that must have once been woven with a floral pattern and the yellow striped paper on the walls was peeling at the corners.
    The commodore had crossed to the phone, telling Rachel and Adam that he would ring for a doctor, but he seemed to be having no luck. “Damn thing’s still on the blink,” he said throwing down the receiver. “You seem OK though.”
    “We’re fine,” Rachel said.
    He peered at them and looked as though he’d suddenly had a good idea. “Drink?” he said. He took a stopper from a cutglass bottle on a dusty tray in the corner and quickly poured three measures of golden liquid into glasses. Adam would have killed for a Coke, but resisted the urge to ask for one. The commodore pressed another bottle with a lever, and frothy water shot into the glasses, diluting the amber liquid. He passed a glass each to Rachel and Adam.
    Rachel looked wide-eyed at her drink. “Is this … whisky?”
    “Er, yes,” Commodore Wing said, as if noticing the fact for the first time. “What’s up? Don’t you drink the stuff?”
    “Um, no … at least I haven’t tried it,” Rachel said.
    “Be good for the shock,” the commodore said, taking a large gulp and swilling the whisky around like mouthwash.
    Adam suddenly felt quite delighted that he was beingtreated in such a grown-up way. He swirled the whisky round in the glass like a man of the world, holding it up to the light, thinking how nice it looked. Then, he tasted it. He took a large swig, just as the commodore had done. His first sensation was the taste of freshly dug earth, followed by the smell of old books. Something musty and old. Then the fire kicked in at the back of his throat and it was like the time he had tried to siphon petrol from a can in his dad’s garage and had swallowed a mouthful. Adam could no longer contain the liquid as the fumes shot up inside his nose and he spluttered, spraying a shower of whisky and spittle over himself and across the commodore’s carpet.
    Rachel was mortified. Sensibly, she had only sniffed at her whisky deciding, wisely she now realized, against actually drinking it. “I am so sorry,” she gushed at the